


arterial spray.

by babybrotherdean



Series: 365 Challenge: 2016 [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dark, Dean in Hell, Evil Mary Winchester, Gen, Hell, Horror, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 03:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6938743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easy to lose track of time in Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	arterial spray.

**Author's Note:**

> My first thought was "Mary being used in Hell to torture Dean." This was the result.
> 
> Um... tread with caution? 
> 
> (This is also a part of my 365 challenge, but I'll add it in there once I've uploaded the rest. It's day 143, and belongs with the other ones from May.)

It’s easy to lose track of time in Hell. Dean stops trying to count the hours, the days or months or years he might’ve spent down here; it’s a fruitless effort, and one that only adds to his ever-growing sense of hopelessness against Alastair’s constant assaults. 

With every passing session- it’s the only way he can sense time passing at all, anymore, the immeasurable moments between Alastair’s attacks and those fleeting, empty spaces in between- it seems that the torture gets more creative. Different tools, different body parts, a million ways to tear him apart only to piece him back together again. Dean can’t even comprehend much of what happens to him; Hell exists on such an entirely separate plane from Earth that it’s impossible to understand the types of pain he feels. Every time Dean thinks, foolishly, that perhaps the torture will circle back on itself, lose its sheen with repetition, there’s something new, and he can’t help but wonder, when he has the capacity to think at all, when he will meet his final end.

It’s his father that he sees first. Dean knows, in whatever logical scraps of his mind remain, that John made it to heaven. Saw it with his own two eyes; it doesn’t mean it’s any easier to look at the man he spent his life modelling after grin at him before carving every bit of meat off his bones. Not that it matters; it’s the shock factor that gets him, and it lasts longer than it should. After John, there’s Bobby, and after Bobby, there’s Sam- that one hits hard, hearing his baby brother whisper how he failed, how he couldn’t do the one thing he was supposed to do. Cut little slits all up the length of Dean’s throat to bleed him dry while he’d detailed just how much he hated him and even if Dean could breath, even if it was still necessary to keep him alive, he wouldn’t want to.

Sam lasts for a short eternity. Dean supposes there’s a lot to be milked out of his baby brother taking him apart.

The routine becomes familiar and Dean should be ready for the change. With the glint of hatred in his brother’s eyes, though, he doesn’t think he could’ve been prepared for anything worse.

She tsks at him, first, fingertips dancing up the length of his arm, and Dean wishes for a long, desperate moment, that he’d been left without the eyes Sam had torn out of their sockets last time. “My poor, broken little angel. How _did_ you end up down here?”

His mother is a punch to the gut and Dean thinks he’s going to throw up.

She’s as beautiful as she’s always been, and there’s something ethereal to the way she looks under the glow of embers and hellfire. Dressed in a white nightgown and hovering just at the edge of a smile, she’s everything he remembers but _wrongwrongwrong_ and he can’t so much as make himself blink.

“Did you miss me, honey?” she asks him, tracing the curve of his jaw. “Because- well, I can’t say that I missed you.” 

It’s an internal struggle, a war between pressing into her touch and flinching away. Dean knows this isn’t real, he _knows_ , but she smells just the same past the ash and the sulphur, and he wants it. God, does he _want_ this to be real. Can’t think of anything he wouldn’t give to just be in his mother’s arms right now, Heaven or Hell or anywhere in between. “Mom,” he whimpers, voice cracked with disuse. Constant abuse of his vocal cords hasn’t done him kindly. “You- what are-”

But she slaps him across the face and it’s almost a relief. Gentle as a lover’s caress after Sam had worked him over earlier. “Mommy’s talking, sweetheart,” she tells him, brisk and unamused. He doesn’t even feel her hand on his chest until suddenly she’s pressing _in_ , fingertips digging into him so hard that his skin breaks under the pressure, has him gasping, squirming in place to no avail. “After all the trouble you’ve caused me, the things I’ve had to endure for you… baby, do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for a chance like this?”

If Dean’d had a hope of responding before, it’s stolen now as her fingers just press harder. He can feel his ribs cracking under the pressure, a sickeningly familiar sensation that lingers on too long before they break apart under her hand and he can’t even really scream. She hardly lets up for a moment before plunging right back in, forcing her hand through bone fragments and straining muscle as he writhes in agony.

It’s nothing new, but is also, somehow, infinitely worse.

“You took my life,” she hisses at him, clawing through the delicate tissue of one of his lungs and stealing away whatever breath he’d been clinging to. “You ruined every chance I had, Dean, every chance I had at being happy. You were nothing but a burden to me, a problem to be dealt with.” There’s bile and blood and God knows what else at the back of Dean’s throat, and he chokes on it, can’t think through the pain but can still see. Sees the blood marring white silk, creeping in spider-veins through the fabric just like the night she died. 

Maybe it’s Hell, maybe it’s her, Dean doesn’t really know, but it feels like every nerve is hyper-alert, and he can feel in excruciating detail the way her fingers slip and slide in the mess she’s making of his thoracic cavity as they work their way under his remaining ribs. His heart stutter-stops in its already-frantic pace as she finds it, grips it in her fist, and then she’s _yanking_ and Dean doesn’t know when he started crying but it’s hard to sob when he can’t even breathe.

His mom’s grip tightens further, and Dean feels his heart trying to beat around the vice of her fingers, and he’s clawing at his restraints, twisting in place in a useless attempt to dislodge her, and even with the chaos that clouds his mind, he can hear her when she speaks, crystal-clear, something tender in the way she whispers to him. “This is me fixing a problem, sweetheart.”

The tear of muscle tissue and crunch of bone is deafening when she rips his heart out of his chest, and Dean can’t see or think or feel past the arterial spray on his mother’s face, a sick parody of the freckles that match his own. He can’t tear his eyes away as he watches the muscle force out another couple contractions, already shrivelling in on itself in the toxic air of the pit. A few seconds or perhaps a thousand years and it’s crumbling to bloody ash in Mary’s hand, and Dean thinks quietly that he can’t possibly deserve this.

“All better,” she coos, and Dean’s vision is starting to go, several seconds late since he is no longer in possession of a beating heart. Hell is funny like that. She cups his cheek and smears some of his own insides against his skin and smiles again, leans in to press a kiss to his forehead. “Sweet dreams, little angel.”

But Dean’s been living thirty years of a neverending nightmare, and he has finally had enough.

Alastair still wears his mother’s smile when he says the word _yes_.

**Author's Note:**

> ...well. Anyways.


End file.
